


There Are No Atheists In Foxholes

by OhNoMyBreadsticks



Series: Of Gods and their Humans [7]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Animal Death, Bad Weather, Dehydration, Elder God, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Magic, Off-Screen Unnamed Character Death, Poisoning, Smut, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24146197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks
Summary: Connor returns to Allen in the spring, as always. They play the same game as every year, the same warm give and take that neither feels the need to speak about.And yet, things are not the same. There are new wrinkles surrounding Allen's eyes, a new well next to the cabin, new crops in the field.Nothing lasts forever, even despite the will of a god.
Relationships: Captain Allen/CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Series: Of Gods and their Humans [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1219730
Comments: 31
Kudos: 36





	There Are No Atheists In Foxholes

**Author's Note:**

> Well folks, here we are! If you've been curious as to Allen's fate and all of Connor's hangups relating to it, then this is the story for you! It's exactly what it says in the tags, so be mindful going forward. If you're nervous about the Major Character Death tag and want a little bit of reassurance/insight into the future before you read, there's a hidden spoiler in the ending notes that you're welcome to look at :) You can find a timeline/explanation of the AU [here](https://ohnomybreadsticks.tumblr.com/be9timeline)
> 
> I very much enjoyed writing this, it was fun to dust off the old angst writing skills lol. It's also exciting to finally be able to share some answers with those of you who have been leaving such wonderful comments - your enthusiasm is a constant inspiration for me! 
> 
> As always, my incredible beta is [thislittlekumquat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thislittlekumquat/pseuds/thislittlekumquat) who left the most delightful commentary on this in addition to helping me clean and polish <3 <3 
> 
> Title taken from [this Fallout Boy Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vgj5-vwkFwQ)

On the day Connor returns in the spring, Allen is digging a well. It’s a strange day, the weather unsure of what it wants to be, caught between winter and spring. The sun is shining down through cold air, catching on the dark fur of his coat, but as he trots towards Allen a snowflake drifts in front of his snout. Connor snaps at it irritably, its sudden appearance having startled him, and he can hear Allen chuckle even from this distance. Berating him would mean shifting to his human form, and while the cold can’t hurt him it certainly isn’t pleasant. Instead, Connor chooses to nip gently at Allen’s leg through his trousers in annoyance, a message which is received loud and clear.

“Alright, alright, leave off,” Allen chuckles, shaking his leg to dislodge Connor’s razor sharp teeth from the fabric of his trousers, “I’m almost done here, then we can go inside.” Experience tells Connor that nothing will stop Allen from completing a task once he starts, so he sits down to groom his coat in the meantime. The journey back to this particular corner of the world hadn’t been exactly easy, but Connor isn’t going to dwell on it. He meant to do it, he did it, and here he is. He digs a burr out of his coat with his teeth and spits it onto the ground with a vindictive little hiss, and Allen stacks another rock onto the pile around the well with a soft clatter. 

The little sounds fill the air between them as snowflakes continue to fall, landing on the ground and melting almost instantly. There have been too many warm days already for this snow to have any chance of gathering in any sort of significant quantity, and yet it still continues to fall from the sky. A useless, meaningless occurrence, in Connor’s opinion. No one has put him in charge of the weather yet though, so he can’t do much more than watch the flakes drifting on the wind with a bored gaze. 

He’s pleased when Allen finishes with his work, observing the new well with the same patient eyes as when he has Connor spread out and leaking underneath him. Connor isn’t sure if he should be insulted or not, chittering to get his attention and trotting off towards the cabin. He’s had enough sitting and waiting, he wants to eat. The journey was long, and he’s not about to walk all this way for nothing. No, Allen is going to cook him something in that wonderful skillet of his, and that will be payment enough. 

By the time Allen walks through the door, a bucket of fresh water in his hand, Connor is stretching his bare legs out in front of the fire, enjoying the feeling of warmth after so long outdoors. There’s something to be said for simple human comforts once in a while, it seems. Shutting the door behind him, Allen simply chuckles and comments “Comfortable? It’s still a little cold to be going around naked.” No matter how many times Connor explains that the cold doesn’t affect him, Allen still pokes and prods at the subject, so he simply rolls his eyes in response.

“I’m hungry,” Connor says instead, because he is, and what else is there to say? He’s not going to ask about the new well, or the new wrinkles around Allen’s eyes. Time passes quickly for humans, no doubt there will be more new wells and new wrinkles the next year, and the next. Connor doesn’t concern himself with cataloguing them. He sits and listens to the comfortable not-silence of Allen cooking - the chop of the knife, the sizzle of the oil, the knock of the spoon against the skillet - and watches the fire burn. As they eat, comfortable together on the bench that Allen uses for eating and woodworking alike, he tells Connor about the planting he needs to do tomorrow, and the traps he’s set out that will need checking. 

“I’ll need to survey the surrounding fields tomorrow. It’s been a while since I was in the area,” Connor says, and Allen nods, knowing that he won’t need to check the traps. But only because Connor has other business that will take him in that direction. 

* * *

It’s raining when Connor allows Allen to take him, the sound of the downpour overwhelming the soft sounds spilling out of his lips. His hands are clutching at the sheets so hard that his claws threaten to tear apart the fabric, but it’s hard to be concerned with that when Allen’s clever tongue is lapping at his hole. It’s not a position Connor had ever considered he would end up in, given the indignity of it all, but after the first time Allen had cajoled him into it he had relented almost completely. There is just too much pleasure to be had for him to deny them both the act. 

There’s a finger pressing into Connor’s hole alongside that clever tongue, and he clenches down around it reflexively. There’s an answering moan from behind him, the tight heat clearly giving Allen a hint of what’s to come in a few moments. Well. It could be a few moments or a lot of moments, depending on how the man is feeling. He’s kept Connor like this all night before, just impaled on his fingers and his tongue, full but not full enough, squirming away from the stimulation but wanting more all at the same time. Connor’s tail twitches at the thought, and Allen gives a warning squeeze to his thigh with the hand that’s not currently opening him up. 

The tail had been a problem when they started all of this, always getting in the way and tickling at Allen’s skin. They had to figure out positions that Connor could hold it in that wouldn’t cause either of them discomfort. He has turned it into a challenge in his mind, another way in which he exerts his total control over his body and his surroundings. Which, yes, he has even when he’s being finger-fucked. The explosion of ivy that first time had been a fluke, an expression of feelings that Connor now has a stranglehold on inside of his chest. He flicks his tail out of the way again and is rewarded with a second finger slipping inside of him.

By the time those fingers are crooking together and seeking out the most sensitive spot inside of him, Connor is open-mouthed panting. The air is damp even under the protection of the cabin, and he feels as if his skin is coated in a layer of sweat and dew simultaneously. It adds a delirious quality to the moment that Allen finally presses down with unnerving accuracy, which is what Connor will use to defend the quite frankly embarrassing sound that escapes him. It’s been so long, the concentrated stimulation electrifies every piece of his body, making his fists clench further into the sheets. 

Allen seems to sense just how sensitive Connor is, and decides to move things along - after all, they have the whole of the spring and summer to play this game. Not that Connor couldn’t leave at any point in time if the fancy takes him. But he hasn’t left the little farm before the end of summer in years. Not that either of them are counting. It’s difficult to focus on anything right now anyways, except the exquisite stretch of Allen’s cock sliding inside of him, the heat of his body as he blankets Connor’s back with his chest, and the scent of his sweat as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the neck of the god he’s taken into his bed.

The sheets finally give way when Connor comes, the fabric ripping in his claws as he tenses and clenches through the pleasure. He savors the moments directly after, the slow ascension through thoughtlessness and pleasure into the slow gasping breath of the present reality. They’re both a mess, as usual, the stickiness and the sweat something Connor has learned to endure but still only barely tolerates. Allen’s body blankets his from above, the both of them a tangle of limbs that barely fits onto the modest bed. It’s a bed for one man, after all, and Allen has never seen fit to replace it.

Tonight, Allen is breathing heavier than usual, his chest rising and falling harshly still as he rolls off of Connor and lays next to him. Connor turns his head to watch with vague interest, listening to the pumping rush of blood through the man’s veins - so similar to the crashing waves of rain outside. The wind buffets sheets of the stuff across the prairie, hard enough to rattle the windows of the little cabin, but the structure holds. And so does Allen’s heart, the muscle gradually returning to its normal rhythm, the man’s lungs slowing from their desperate gasps to more even breaths.

“Was I that overwhelming?” Connor teases slyly, knowing that his own ego always enjoys a few positive words from the man he’s just allowed to fuck him, “You’ve forgotten what it is to lie with a god.”

Allen snorts and meets his gaze finally, eyes half lidded and tired, but still sharp as ever. “I’m getting old if a good fuck tires me out like this,” he retorts, and both of them hear the underlying sentiment - this was good,  _ you _ were good. It’s enough to pacify Connor, so he grants Allen a few more moments of respite before he demands the man get up and grab the cloth to wash them both off. Connor wants to sleep now, and there’s no way he’s going to do it sticky and covered all kinds of filth - drool, sweat, come, it was all disgusting.

Allen does as he’s asked, but gets his own revenge by forcing Connor off the bed so he can strip the sheets. He sticks a finger through the holes the god ripped in them, teasing, “Was I that overwhelming?” 

Connor bats him about the head for that, threatening to chew holes in all of his sheets on purpose. They fall into bed together still chuckling, their little corner of the world dry and protected and full of the warm syrupy feeling of a mind moments before sleep.

* * *

Allen doesn’t have time to mend the sheets for weeks, and when he does the weather has turned sunny and warm. He sits on his bench in the shade outside of the cabin, despite there clearly being better lighting for his darning just a few feet away. What  _ is _ sitting in the sun is his rack of pelts, the product of the morning’s work. The smell of them drying out would have been enough of a beacon to guide Connor back to the little cabin if he had needed that sort of signposting. 

“Does it bother you?” Allen had asked once, gesturing vaguely at the fox pelts he was cleaning and hanging to dry. They would garner him a fair price from the next interested fur trader to wander past. 

“If it did, you would be dead already,” Connor replied simply, lips curling up into a smirk to reveal the points of every sharpened tooth. 

And truly, the sight of the dead animals lying out in the sun bothers Connor not one bit. He simply trots up to the bench and sits down, leaning back as his human legs stretch out to settle on the ground. “Why are you working in the shade? That can’t be good for your eyes,” Connor says matter-of-factly. Human bodies are so delicate, a little mistake in any direction and they can begin to fail. He’s seen it happen across the ages, and no amount of human knowledge or medicine can truly prevent it.

Allen grunts in response, his needle moving deftly through the fabric, stitching it back together with ease. He has such skill stored in those hands, his fingers able to mend a sheet of fabric just as easily as a flap of human skin. Connor enjoys watching the way his fingers move, much in the same way he enjoys watching a viper stalk its prey. Skill born of necessity, executed to prolong the life of the predator. Or, in Allen’s case, sometimes to prolong the life of another. Connor isn’t sure why, but the thought makes him uneasy.

“I’ve got a headache. The sun only makes it worse,” Allen explains finally, and Connor nods to show that he’s heard and understood. Headaches are truly one of the most baffling of all human maladies - seemingly without cause half the time, and unclear in the nature of their cure. 

“Can you draw some water for me from the well?” Allen asks after a few more minutes of silent sewing. Connor has nothing else to occupy his time, so he shrugs and complies with the request. The new well has been operating admirably, according to Allen, the supply of water clear and fresh. Exactly what he needed after the original one, some ways away from the cabin, had run dry. The bucket is cool against Connor’s hand as he handles it, the depth of it allowing a reprieve from the already oppressive heat of the spring sun. He stands and turns an ear to the pulse of the water deep beneath the earth for a moment, listening to what he’s always thought of as Mother’s heartbeat. Steady as ever. Useless as ever.

Turning away from the well, Connor sets the bucket down inside and returns with a glass for Allen, handing it over without speaking. He’s gotten used to this exchange of labor, become comfortable with the idea of doing something for another person. It’s not as if he serves Allen, something a god would never stoop to doing, it’s more like… they help each other occasionally. When they feel like it. Yes, there’s never an expectation or a contract of sorts, and that makes the action easier to bear.

They sit together as the sun slinks across the sky, Connor’s eyes watching the flight of swallows on the wind. The way they dodge and twist around each other in the air is entertaining, at least. Eventually Allen sets the sheets down and stretches, a groan escaping him as his back pops. “That’s done with finally,” he says, tucking the needle and thread into their little pouch and looking over at Connor with amusement. “Next sheet you rip I’ll make you do the mending.”

Connor huffs and sticks his nose up, retorting, “Maybe you should invest in better sheets. Or better yet, use some of those pelts for yourself.” He gestures at the rack, hoping to bait Allen into answering a question he’s never bothered to ask: why Allen never indulges in the furs he so carefully procures. He’s always selling them off to the fur traders, exchanging his hard work for other products or, in some rare cases, simple coins. 

Allen simply shrugs, standing up with a wince they both pointedly ignore. “I have no need for such luxury,” he says, walking over to the rack to check on the progress of his work. “I hunt to keep myself fed and to trade for the things I need for my craft. Nothing more, nothing less.” Connor considers that answer, tallies it up with what he knows of Allen’s lifestyle, and deems it the truth. Allen knows better than to outright lie to a god, anyways. He nods, satisfied.

And Allen, satisfied with his progress for the day, grabs the rack and drags it towards his workshed, announcing “We’ll have rabbit for dinner tonight.” Connor smiles and licks his lips, thinking to himself that such simple things as rabbit stew might as well count as a luxury after such a long time without them.

* * *

The sky has taken a turn for the worse, the sun’s light muted and twisted into a sickly green glow that spills into the cabin. It dyes the leather bag that Allen is holding, and catches on the bottles and instruments he’s carefully packing inside of it. Connor turns from watching him work with a huff, tail sweeping angrily behind him as he turns to look out the window instead. The storm is almost upon them, and they all know it. The fear pouring off of the men outside is palpable even inside of his sanctuary here, the smell rancid and acidic. Perhaps that’s the reason Connor’s stomach is churning and twisting in his gut.

“It is madness to ride in this weather,” Connor says simply, repeating his earlier argument for some reason that he can’t quite fathom. Isn’t the warning of a god enough for some people? “You should wait. If you’re caught by the twister, even a fast horse won’t carry you out of its path.” There’s silence in answer, but when Connor turns, annoyed, he finds that Allen is simply distracted by counting out pills in his hand, carefully measuring them into a bottle before packing it in with the rest of his gear.

“Madness, perhaps. But suffering won’t wait for the storm to pass, and neither will I,” Allen finally answers, straightening up and meeting Connor’s gaze calmly. His calm refusal to listen to reason has Connor grinding his teeth together, a low growl working its way up and out of his throat. Insufferable human stubbornness! Why is Allen willing to risk his own life for the life of some unknown person who couldn’t even care for itself? It makes no  _ sense _ , and that is what has Connor’s blood boiling. 

Outside, one of the horses whinnies nervously, the wind beginning to pick up. Even if the twister didn’t hit them, there is a chance they could be hit by a wave of hail large enough to injure both man and beast. Despite all of that, there is a man outside who has already ridden all the way to Allen’s cabin, and Allen is about to walk outside and join him, riding back across the same ridiculous stretch of prairie grass. This flew in the face of every survival instinct humans should possess, why couldn’t they get that through their thick heads? 

Ignorant of the turmoil in Connor’s head, Allen shrugs on his coat and slings his bag across his back. “You’re welcome to stay or go as you please. I trust you’ll stay safe regardless,” he says, and his expression softens slightly as he looks at Connor then. There are bags under his eyes, darker every day, as the headaches that had initially been written off as some sort of heat stroke return now with increasing frequency. Connor knows he hasn’t been sleeping. Shouldn’t be riding at all, and especially not into this wild riot of nature, where the winds themselves will tear the earth apart.

“ _ If you return _ , perhaps you’ll find out if I stay or go,” Connor says icily, tearing his gaze away from Allen’s, his ears pressed firmly down against his head. If he wants to exercise his free will so badly, Connor hopes he chokes on it. Ridiculous little humans with their ridiculous little worries. All for the sake of some sick child. Absolutely revolting. As a god, so far above the worries of mortal beings, Connor can’t even fathom the reasoning. He stays facing the window as Allen sighs and turns to leave, refusing to watch him walk away. Why should he, when he so vehemently opposes the whole venture?

Connor listens to the sound of horses’ hooves as they fade into the distance, and sits down on the bed with another growl. He is alone again, as he always is, alone with the sound of the wind and the smell of last night’s fire as ashes in the hearth. Good. Better to be alone and alive than risking your life for a useless cause. 

When Allen returns in the night, windswept and haggard and reeking of death, he doesn’t speak. He simply lays himself down on the bed and curls around the warm body of the fox waiting there for him. 

* * *

Summer is nearing its end, but its heat still lingers in the air like a promise - like a threat. It won’t leave without a fight, and Connor knows the coming of winter through fall will be a brutal battle. It isn’t uncommon for cold snaps to arrive suddenly and freeze the last of the harvest, only for the next week to be warm enough to have sweat dripping down your back. It’s part of why Allen is so diligent in preparing for the winter early, making sure his stores are ready for the inevitable change of the seasons. Connor watches him dry and salt the meat from the animals he traps, and gather herbs and other medicinal ingredients to tide him over through the long cold winter. 

Connor helps, sometimes, in his own way. After all, he wants this place to exist when he returns the next year. It’s become comfortable to spend his summers here, relaxing and relishing in the comfort of a warm body and clever fingers. But the first brush of cold wind across his fur has Connor eyeing the horizon, paws itching to bound across the prairie once more. If he’s to survey his land before the snow falls, he’ll need to leave soon. There are seemingly infinite miles stretching ahead of him, and every piece of deadly foliage and every venomous creature calls out in welcome.

It’s later in the year than he’d usually leave, and Connor knows it. He thinks that Allen knows it as well, although neither of them comment on it. If they do, Connor is sure the tenuous silence between them will snap like a cord pulled to its absolute breaking point. Allen certainly looks as if he is at a breaking point - Connor has never seen him so exhausted. It’s a strange sickness that’s taken hold of him, nothing the god can particularly pinpoint even when he looks closely at the energy that makes up this particular human body. Then again, Connor has never concerned himself with the illnesses of men. He has no need. Humans are hardy creatures, for all their weakness, and he is sure Allen will recover.

And Allen rallies, has days where he seems to gather his strength through the force of his will alone. Even without the use of a true name, Connor can practically  _ taste _ Allen’s will when it’s bent to a task. Like the deepest rich tones of the earth as it is tilled, the damp corners of a cave long undisturbed by human hands, a rich darkness without malice. He could drink it in for days, the way it pours off of him like the slow waves of the ocean. It has been so long since Connor has seen the ocean, but he is reminded of it when he watches Allen in the thick of his labor. Slow, but powerful, and so far from the grasp of anyone that would change its course.

Allen would like the ocean, Connor thinks, although he will likely never get to see it. The ocean of grass that surrounds the place he was born will have to suffice.

Today, Allen has shouldered his bag and tucked his knife into his belt, intending to go and empty the traps surrounding his land. “I’ll be back in time for supper,” he announces, and Connor decides that perhaps he will have to make sure something is ready to eat when he returns. There’s bound to be good meat from the traps, after all, it would be a shame to waste such a meal without the proper accompaniments. 

“Good hunting,” Connor says with a smirk, waving lazily from where he is reclining in the shade of the cabin. The sun is beating down with malice today, he sees no reason to sweat unless it’s absolutely necessary. He certainly doesn’t envy Allen - he can already smell the sweat on his skin and he’s barely done anything yet. The breeze picks up as he steadily treads his way into the distance, and Connor catches one last glimpse of the way his white shirt flutters against his broad back before he’s lost in the blue and yellow haze. 

Time passes, as it always does, and Connor loses track of it, as he sometimes does. It’s difficult to mark the passing of time in the way humans do when there is no human to remind him of it. It’s why he so often wanders through the dead of night when he’s away for the winter - there’s simply no reason to stop and rest for a being such as himself. It’s the change in the air that reminds Connor that the day is drawing to a close, the sun losing its hold over the sky and a chill wind blowing in across the grass. His ears perk up in anticipation of Allen’s returning footsteps, but hear only the trill of crickets emerging from their holes to enjoy the cool of the evening.

It’s odd that Allen hasn’t returned yet, as Connor knows him to be a man of his word. Almost to an irritating degree, as he refuses to bend from a decision once he’s made it. Connor sits in front of the cabin for a while, scanning a horizon that’s being painted with the blood reds and bright pinks of the setting sun. There’s an unease in the air, some instinct deep in his gut that drives him to his feet and sets him trotting away in the direction Allen had taken this morning. Perhaps something had gone wrong with one of the traps, and he has been delayed in retrieving the harvest. Perhaps someone has been hurt and in his stupidity he’s stayed to help them. There are any number of logical reasons why Allen has been delayed.

And yet.

There is a feeling in Connor’s gut that will not be shaken by any reasoning in his mind, an anxiety that drives his paws to beat faster across the earth. The air is coming alive with the sounds of animals emerging into the twilight, but the air around Connor is silent save for the panting of his own breath. No living thing dares cross the path of a god who does not wish to be hindered. As he crests the gentle slope of yet another rolling hill, Connor’s nose picks up a familiar scent floating on the wind, and he makes an abrupt turn. Familiar, yes, but also wrong in so many ways, the smell of Allen’s body marred by sweat and pain.

Connor finds Allen’s body collapsed in a heap several feet away from one of the traps, face down in the grass with his bag and water skin scattered next to him. He’s alive, Connor can feel that immediately, but he’s weak. So weak. He’s been out here under the sun for most of the day, and there’s no water left in his water skin, the cork popped off and still clutched weakly in his hand. Connor can feel the weak and fluttering pulse of Allen’s heart in his chest as he rolls the man over, a groan escaping his lips. Connor’s heart is beating just as quickly, but it’s so strong he can barely hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Allen? Allen, speak to me,” Connor says, and his voice comes out like a harsh command, the panic (panic, how long has it been since he felt that emotion?) twisting his throat. With Allen on his back, Connor’s hands pat across his body in search of some previously unnoticed injuries, finding nothing. He moves them to cradle the man’s face, fingers brushing sweat soaked hair off of his forehead. Allen looks truly terrible, his skin pale and clammy with dark circles engraved underneath his closed eyes. Moments pass like years before his mouth begins to move, chapped lips at first forming only soundless shapes before his eyelids slowly flutter open and he utters a single word - 

“Connor?”

Connor’s heart leaps into his throat, and he finds himself nodding, reassuring Allen, “Of course. What happened to you? Who did this?” The second question is useless, an attempt to gain control over a situation with no real villain. Because, as Allen shakes his head, Connor guesses at the true cause of all this suffering. It’s confirmed when the man finally musters up the energy to speak, explaining “I passed out. Couldn’t even crawl home… I drank what water I had, but it didn’t make me feel any better.” 

The water skin, innocuously lying in the grass, suddenly feels like a curse. Connor’s mind is whirling, trying to crack a puzzle he’s never realized he has all the pieces to - what was different? What had changed to hurt Allen, when it should have helped him? The only thing that’s changed this summer is the new well. Every memory of watching Allen drink its water to quell his increasing headaches and nausea is now a moment of watching him smother himself a little bit more. Bit by bit, until the heat of the sun was finally too much for him. Damn it all. Damn every single stone of that hole in the ground, full of water and the sound of the earth, and something that’s now coursing through Allen’s veins like a poison Connor can’t reach out and grab.

The anger and realization must show on his face, because suddenly there’s a warm hand resting on his, pulling at it until it’s enveloped in Allen’s calloused and clammy palm. “You didn’t know. I didn’t either,” he says, his voice rough from the dehydration. He’s been baking out here, his body already weakened, and suddenly all the chill air in the world isn’t enough. 

“I’ll carry you back,” Connor says suddenly, “Just this once though, so don’t get used to it. You’ll barely weigh a thing to a god like myself.” 

Allen’s hand tightens on his, and he tries to shake his head, but can’t without wincing in pain. “Please,” he says, then his voice is swallowed by a wracking cough, his throat too dry to allow him to speak. Connor looks up at the cloudless sky and wishes for rain, but the sky, as always, is impassive.

“Please don’t. Just stay with me. It’s getting dark out, I won’t keep you long… You can go home for dinner,” Allen says, and the finality in his words are like a knife in Connor’s chest. Home. Bullshit. Home isn’t home without the man it belongs to. He doesn’t know what to do against the yawning ache that’s suddenly enveloping him, this host of emotions he has no ability to control or understand. He’s never lost anything before. A god shouldn’t have to. This isn’t fair.  _ This isn’t fair. _ That thought plays over and over in Connor’s mind, as all around them poison ivy sprouts from the ground and withers away, a cycle of pain and panic made physical.

Allen is so calm, his eyes staring up at Connor steadily, even as Connor’s lip wobbles and his hands shake. Even now, he is like the steadfast ocean. An ocean he will never see, a life in its ebb. "I am glad," Allen rasps out, "to have spent my time with you." His words drip softly onto Connor, like the tears he finds he cannot cry.

Allen’s voice is so soft now, so quiet, but he is bending all his will to speak nevertheless. There are words they both could say, things Connor could try to do, but he knows neither of them would accept any of these things. He doesn’t have to offer to know that Allen would rather fade out of the world than stay bound to it without his humanity. Stubborn. Foolish. Brave. Something Connor is not. Truly, in this moment, he is helpless and afraid, a farce of a god. For what good is a god who cannot keep the things he wants?

“My name. It’s Fletcher. Fletcher Allen,” Allen says, and his lips twitch up into a hint of a smile. It’s a final gift, a surrender of sorts when there’s no way for Connor to possibly use it against him. It’s meant to be a kindness, and he savors the way it feels on his tongue -  _ Fletcher _ . This is a name he can imagine himself speaking, laughing, crying out in pleasure. And yet, truly, Allen has no idea the burden he’s placed on Connor in this moment. The power of a true name is that of true understanding, the lifting of the veil between the eyes of a god and the mind of the human whose name he possesses. 

Suddenly, Connor can feel every emotion swirling through Allen’s mind, and he realizes that the calm is simply a well constructed mask. He’s scared, terrified; the agony of his body failing him is nothing compared to the pain in his chest as he looks up at his god. Connor can hear the voice echoing in Allen’s head, the panicked thoughts of a man who knows he will not have thoughts for much longer.

_ I don’t want to die. _

_ I’m scared to go. _

_ I can’t leave him all alone again. _

There are other words, other feelings, too strong and powerful and far too late for the both of them now. So instead of speaking, instead of trying to force his blood down the throat of a man who would curse him for saving his life, Connor leans down and kisses Allen one last time. He drinks in everything he’s ever cared about in this one moment, chapped lips chaste against his own as Allen’s hand goes limp against his fingers. Connor swallows down his final breath like a prayer, like an absolution, like a broken promise, and presses their foreheads together as their lips part.

He stays like this for a long time. The moon rises. The air grows cold. Little creatures continue to live and die their meaningless lives all around him. Connor’s eyes see nothing and everything, his mind filled with the static buzz of grief. 

“I am glad to have been with you as well, Fletcher Allen,” Connor whispers, but his words fall on the deaf ears of the dead.

* * *

In the morning, Connor leaves the prairie. There is nothing left for him here, after all. He left Allen where he had found him, looking up towards the stars one last time. The ivy will keep him safe, as he returns to the earth as all living things must do. All living things which are not gods, Connor reminds himself, for he is already a part of this earth, a part broken off and set on its own path. Alone.

He burns the cabin down, and breaks the well, pushing the stones into it and relishing in the destruction. The thought of other humans using Allen’s things for themselves makes his skin crawl. Connor sits at a distance and watches the flames dance, black smoke rising like a beacon into the pale blue of the sky. He thinks of setting fire to the whole prairie, but knows it is not yet time for this. Instead, he turns on his heels and trots away.

With him Connor carries the scent of the earth as it’s tilled, the sound of distant thunder, and a lock of hair, tucked safely close against his chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> ! **SPOILERS FOR ALLEN'S FATE** ! <\-- Only mouse-over this text if you want a spoiler for what happens in this story and in future stories in this series (I'm a spoiler junkie myself, I won't judge <3) 
> 
> And there we are! I gotta be real with you, I cried writing the ending lmao, so I'm sending hugs out if you need them after this <3 Thank you so much for reading and for sticking with me through this series, it's such a humbling feeling to see people still reading along! 
> 
> Any kudos or comments at any time are loved and cherished, and I'm available on [tumblr](https://ohnomybreadsticks.tumblr.com/) if you ever feel like chatting or reading some of my lil drabbles, I’d love to see you there C:


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